The eerie hush, familiar yet unique to all, fell over the arena. I say ‘the’ hush because ‘a’ does not do it justice. The hush is born of anticipation associated with some coming event; that much is universal. Its uniqueness is derived from the place and stature of its participants. And on this day the hush descended in all its forms.
For most of the field, it brought forth the magnitude of the moment. Yes, they knew and had known for a long time that this was in fact the end of the road. This would be the culmination of all the struggle that came with their chosen occupation. Some were destined to rise to the task. Some were destined to fade. All experienced the final reminder of the magnitude of the day that was the hush.
For the observers who filled the crowded arena, the hush brought forth one final gust of excitement. The billing. The weeks of waiting and counting down to this day. Most understood the greatness of the men lined up in front of them awaiting the starter’s command. The hush simply inserted one final and necessary shot of energy into what was about to occur.
For me, the hush had little effect but to tighten the knot in my stomach. Jem’s demeanor over the last week still had me worried. I had seen his rituals, his preparation, all of it, so many times that I thought I had his quirks memorized. I even, on occasion, feigned that I not only memorized them, but I understood them. That concept was laughable of course; understanding Jem’s brain was a lot like understanding why the sky is blue. It is a lot easier to simply say “it just is”
than to explain the complex physics behind it.
Changes in his actions were not by themselves worrisome. It was their cause that still concerned me.
“There will be one command,” the starter spoke into his microphone. “‘Runners to your mark’ and then I will shoot the gun.”
I watched Jem carefully. His dull blue and gray top and black half tights stood out from the bright colors of the men who stood around him. I smiled at the irony. He always had to stand out. In a time when flashy colors were the trend in distant running he forewent his usual bright tendencies to be the least colorful runner in the group. He as on the third runner from the inside and was flanked by Casey Milton on one side and a runner I did not know on the other.
The contrast between Jem and Milton was evident, though not as profound as it had once been. Milton’s tall, slight build was the image of an American runner. Even with some of his muscle weight gone, Jem still had 20 pounds on Milton, and when they stood side by side the rippling muscles that he was so conscious of stood out. To me, however, the work he put in to lose some of that muscle was obvious. He no longer looked like a linebacker among starving children. He looked like a thoroughbred in a pack of thoroughbreds. It was his dream to be equal to the men on this track. Whether he accepted that or knew it to be true I do not know. But in my eyes, and in the eyes of Milton and the rest, he was.
“RUNNERS TO YOUR MARK.” The group stepped quickly up to the line and leaned forward in anticipation of the start of the race. In the moment between the command and the gun Jem stared forward at a point in the crowd. I followed his gaze and there, sticking out like a sore thumb in the crowd of skinny track and field fans, was Dakota Hatchet.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” I muttered to Mark. “Who…?” He was cut off by the sound of the gun and the subsequent scream of the crowd as the runners flew into the first curve of the race.
“Hatchet,” I said.
“Hatchet? Where the hell…” He scanned the crowd and spotted the man in the crowd. “We haven’t heard from him in weeks, I thought he was done with Jem.”
I did not have the heart to tell him that he had been at our apartment only a week before. Him being here, now, confirmed my suspicions that something was going on between he and Jem and I knew it meant trouble. I hated Jem’s stubbornness. Had we not convinced him that Mark’s training was enough? Had we not proved to him that he was capable of doing this without the help of some crock?
Regardless of the circumstances regarding Hatchet, there was a race underway and I turned my attention to the track as they came through the first indoor lap.
“Did you get a time on that?” I asked.
Mark glanced at his watch. “Right at 30-31 seconds. They’re a little ancy but they’ll settle in.”
The pack strode around the track once more and approached the 400 meter mark with Jem sitting in fourth place. “63!” Mark yelled as they rocketed past. This should have been a good sign, but then I caught a look at Jems face as they came by. His eyes were wide open, giving his face a look of horror that was a far cry from the calm that usually characterized him. Sweat poured down his face and soaked his jersey down past his belly button. It stuck me that it was a little early into the race for that.
As the group came off the curve and into the back stretch on lap three, Jem swung wide, moving around the top three and into the lead.
“Shit. What is he doing? Never listens, that one!” exclaimed Mark as he looked on. Evidently, the plan had not been for Jem to run from the lead at this point in the race. Mark squeezed against the edge of the banked track and Jem led the field through lap three. “Calm down Jem! You have a lot to go, just calm down!” He glanced at his watch nervously.
They hit the back stretch again and Jem pulled ahead, gapping the field by a few strides. As he rounded the track to end lap four, his lead was by over five seconds and growing. The crowd was surprised by a lead this large so early in the race and cheered on this upstart challenger. Those of us in Jem’ camp however, were horrified.
As Jem passed the 800 meter mark, Mark’s dialogue turned from concern for an early lead to fury for a fast pace. He glanced at his watch again and screamed, “That’s 2:01, Jem! REEL IT IN!” He turned to me and said “Jesus, he went 63 and then 58, did he forget he’s running a fucking 3K?”
Jem showed no signs of slowing down as he powered around the track for a fifth time. In fact, he appeared to be speeding up even more. Meanwhile the rest of the field, spectacularly far back from Jem and running tactically, was full of poise and calm. It was evident that they, including Milton, were not going to try and catch Jem; they were simply going to wait for him to fade and take over when he did.
My perplexity over Jems race became more profound with every passing lap. The look on his face perplexed me even further. His eyes were still wide open and now joining them were his mouth, which was open widely as if he was in the motion of screaming at something. Every once in a while a swath of saliva would fly out and he would shake his head wildly to throw it away. What was wrong with him?
I glanced over at Hatchet. He was smiling from ear to ear with that smug grin. His arms were crossed and he was nodding his head in satisfaction. It was as if he was approving of some creation, some piece of art. I looked at Jem and then back at Hatchet. What did he do?
Jem came through his sixth lap and Mark yelled hopelessly that his last quarter had been another 58. He turned to me again, and his face, still angry, now showed signs of confusion, worry, and even some awe. “If he keeps this pace for the next two laps he’ll have run a P.R. in the mile by 5 seconds,” he said to me. “And he will go sub-4.”
Was this some kind of plan all along? To go sub-4 in the mile? No, it could not have been, Jem wanted this win too bad to do something as crazy as that. Yes, he wanted to be a sub 4 minute miler as well but not in a 3K championship. It made no sense. Hatchet must have said something to him. He must have done something to him. Jem is so impressionable, but to this extent?
Mark caught me looking at Hatchet as Jem came through lap 7. He turned and looked too and I could tell that he was thinking about exactly what I was. Both of our thoughts were cut short as Jem rounded the last curve and came down the straightway towards the mile mark. I glanced at my watch. Yes, he would cross that line in somewhere under 4 minutes, his pace had held. But then what would he do?
“3:58” Mark almost whispered the split as Jem finished his eighth lap. The crowd was stunned and relatively quiet by the time as Jem kept moving into lap nine. They were a largely knowledgeable group, and because the participants P.R.’s were printed in the program, most members of the crowd half expected the former 4:03 miler to simply stop after his eighth lap. When he did not stop, the cheers of encouragement began. This packed house wanted to see something special.
I had almost expected him to stop too. But on he went, still at the same pace as he flew down the backstretch.
It began as he came off the curve and towards the start of lap 10. His face was still horrible to look at, but now his arms were beginning to flail. With every step they spun further into the space above and below his torso. As he started the lap he began to visibly wobble from side to side. His legs were no longer landing directly in front of him but instead he was striking slightly over the other, causing his sway. His pace began to slow as he turned around the second bank and into the homestretch.
His legs began to kick out far behind him as if he was doing an dynamic butt-kicker warm-up. This added motion caused him to sway further from side to side. His flailing arms added an outward motion as they attempted to bring balance to the rest of his body.
His eyes widened more than I thought was possible as his upper body started to lean forward. He kept his head up, as if staring forward would force the rest of his body to continue moving forward. He willed himself to stay upright but his body was failed him. Those eyes, now crazed and unnatural looking took one last fleeting glance to the sky before he crashed into a heap onto the track and began convulsing.
Mark sprinted to the end of the banked curve and was grabbed by security as he tried to cross the track towards his ailing athlete. “I’m his coach LET ME GO!”
The force of Jems convulsions moved him halfway off to the inside until he was caught by the rail. Athletic training staff already on the inside of the ring pulled him the rest of the way off before he was trampled by the chase, now lead, pack. When they passed the guards let Mark go and he ran to the infield.
I tried to follow but was restrained as a non-participant and non-coach. I strained to see what was happening in there but could not see much. I turned and spotted Hatchet in the midst of the stunned crowd. The look on his face was not one of concern but of anger. He looked as if he had been failed. He turned and walked quickly out of the building. Whatever he had done to Jem, whatever drug or concoction he gave him, had caused this horror show and his reaction was to get angry at his own “failure” and leave? Every part of me hated him.
The 15 lap race continued and Casey Milton kicked his way to the win. All eyes, however were on the drama taking place in the infield. A doctor had been called in from the stands and had begun to administer CPR. As soon as the race was finished I snuck past the guards and joined my friend.
Mark was in tears as the doctor compressed on Jem lifeless body. The convulsions had stopped and there was no pulse to be found. The doctor pushed and breathed into him time and time again but nothing happened. An EKG machine was brought out from somewhere but it had no effect. Jem was dead.
little plane little plane 